He Has Taken Flight
by Pale Treasures
Summary: The Invisible Woman, 2013 film. Nelly Ternan finds out that Dickens has passed away. One shot.


**He Has Taken Flight**

**Disclaimer: **Nothing belongs to me, etc.

**Rating: **K+

**Summary: **The Invisible Woman, 2013 film. Nelly Ternan finds out that Dickens has passed away. One shot.

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><p>She found out on a wan spring day. The watery sunlight trickled over slabs of stone and brick, barely softening their dullness. It was too weak to pierce the gloomy skies, to offer, however momentarily, a tendril of warmth to the passerby's. No criss-crosses of light were sketched over the thick fabric of the men's overcoats or the lady's dresses. It was a spring day with very little to distinguish it from an autumn one.<p>

She did not know he had been ill; she had had no presentiment of his death. Looking back, she should have. How could she not, when for so many years she had been so intimately acquainted with his slightest movement, even at a distance, when she knew what he was thinking of or was about to say before he even did? Perhaps it was that she had not wished to anticipate his death; that she had positively shrunk, in mute horror and panic, from doing so. She had hoped, like a silly girl, that Death would not claim him. Surely not him; he was too large, too bright a presence, too necessary for this world. His flaws – for they certainly existed – were regardless not strong enough to obliterate all the good he had done, the good he had intended to do, the love and esteem that so many had for him. Life, she felt, could not resume or regain normality if he was gone.

But she did not know, and when her mother came to visit her that dismal June day, five years since the rail crash, five years since the death of her only child had left her in a state of breathless, acute agony, she did not suspect anything.

"Nelly." Her mother had grown older over the years. The beautiful, regal face was more deeply marked, the keen blue gaze had begun to acquire a milky quality, her fine brown hair was laced with grey. Still, hers was a beloved, familiar sight, one she cherished and felt grateful for. Her lips twitched in a smile as she stepped forward to embrace her. "How have you been, dearest?"

Her mother's voice was unchanged, quite soft and impeccably composed. She, foolish Nelly, who inwardly prided herself so very much on knowing him, on guessing most of what he was going to experience, both for sorrow and for joy, could not tell anything was amiss. She pulled back and smiled. "Will you not sit, mother?"

Her mother sat before her on a settee, smoothing out the skirts of her frock. She met her eyes again, and her lips were seized by a perceptible tremor. "Nelly," she began, and her voice was slightly hoarse this time, "my dearest girl... I have very sorrowful news, news, I perceive, you are still unaware of. I came to tell you of them, because I thought it would be best if... if you found out from me."

The smile began to fade from her face, the innocent pleasure at being visited by her mother after many days without seeing each other bleeding slowly from her heart. "What is it?"

"Mr. Dickens... he..." Her mother swallowed. "Mr. Dickens has suffered a stroke yesterday. He... he passed away today." Grief twisted her mother's features, deepening the effect that the passing of time had begun to wreak on their beauty and freshness. She could not reply; she merely sat there in a silent stupor. Her mother searched her face, concern beginning to mingle with the sorrow. "It is a very painful communication to impart, and God knows I wish I did not have to do so. But I believed it would be best... that I ought to..." Discreetly, she raised her handkerchief to one eye. "We shall all miss him greatly." The words were but a whisper, a very low one, as though she feared the effect that any words spoken only slightly louder might have on her.

Still, she did not reply. Her mother's words fought to breach the barrier her mind had erected between them and comprehension. She could only stare, though, oddly, her eyes were becoming glassy, tearful.

"I am certain he did not forget you," her mother continued, whispering still, "I am certain that he took... measures... to ensure that you would be well cared for once he could no longer do so."

"Yes," she interjected dully, barely hearing her own voice, "yes."

"Forgive me, darling, for the mercenary language. One never does know how to offer comfort at such times, no matter how much loss and grief one has undergone." Her mother's voice faded almost entirely. She raised one hand to her cheek, letting it linger there. "Take heart, my love. He would not have wished you to grieve for him. He would have liked you to remember only the good, I daresay."

"Yes."

Again, her mother looked into into her face anxiously. "Shall I stay with you today?"

"No, mamma, I should wish to be quite alone," she said, like an automaton.

A sigh, the softest. "I see. Very well, then." Her mother got up. "Do send for me if you need anything at all. I will come, whatever the hour."

"Yes."

She did not hear her leave.

She got up, wandering the house torpidly, surprised that she could still remember her way around it, that it had not turned into a maze impossible to navigate. She stopped before the window. The day had grown a little brighter. Patches of blinding light pierced the grey in the sky, revealing a glimpse of what lay behind; like a curtain being drawn, inviting conjecture, but offering no more than that.

Slowly, almost abstractedly, she ran her fingers over the length of the windowsill, feeling the coarseness of the dust upon it. He would never feel the dust again; never see it gather on his desk and papers and carpet, never see it, like fairy dust, dance within the shafts of sunlight. He would never see the sun again; all the countless springs ahead were forever denied him.

She held a clenched fist to her breast as though to keep her heart from bursting. He was gone. The greatest man in the world, indomitable in his energy and sanguine spirits, small in his gentleness like a love-starved child, was no longer of this earth. They had moved in the same realm, their thoughts gradually becoming no secret to each other, merely a comfort they no longer had any need to put into words. His thoughts were removed to a different world entirely; to eternal oblivion. He had not waited.

Tears leaked in dollops from her eyes and down her cheeks. The unspeakable anguish that sprung like hell fire from the depths of her being could not be contained. Leaning over like a broken thing, grasping the windowsill for dear life, she sobbed quietly, a soft, childish sob, a sob filled with disbelieving wonder, the kind that could never have accounted for the depth and size of the grief and awareness within.

It was impossible to imagine that he had suffered; it was torture to suppose that it had indeed happened. And she had not been there. She had not known. She had betrayed him in his hour of need. What a difference it could have made, her being there. He would have fought, if only for her sake, she was sure of it. But it no longer mattered. It was a fearsome thing, how love, his, hers, its vigour and tenacity, the exquisiteness of the small touches that had been begotten from it, could be swept aside like a trembling leaf in a gust of pitiless wind. How easy it was, how unimportant it all became. And they had become phantoms in their decision to live according to their feelings; now only forgetfulness must follow. Hers, particularly. For the world could not truly ever forget someone like him.

She drew shallow breaths through her tears and wiped her face. Already she felt quite alone, desperately alone. Her heart curled up within her in mute despair, as though giving up, turning its back on anything living. She had never been alone until now; as a child, there had been her family, and afterwards his presence had provided solace, a shade for her to hide under. It had not always been thus, and it certainly had not always been a comfort to her. But now, how she missed it! How could she be expected to learn again how to move and live and breathe on her own? What comfort was there to be found in emptiness?

Heavily, she leaned against the window frame, looking up into the parts of the sky that dazzled her. She caught the glimpse of bright whiteness from behind a cloud, a taste of the true heart of heaven. Foolishly, she imagined him there. She imagined that already he ruled a new dwelling, and that perhaps he saw her here, and looked back at her. It would be unlike him not to send her a sign of some sort, if he was allowed it. A reassurance that he continued to watch over her. It was, to be sure, the dream of a child. But still, wrapping her arms around herself, she looked on. She looked on.


End file.
